In the week that followed Janet Cardiff's visit to
Elfrida's attic, these two young women went through a
curious reapproachment. At every step it was tentative,
but at every step it was also enjoyable. They made
sacrifices to meet on most days; they took long walks
together, and arranged lunches at out-of-the-way
restaurants; they canvassed eagerly such matters of
interest in the world that supremely attracted them as
had been lying undiscussed between them until now. The
intrinsic pleasure that was in each for the other had
been enhanced by deprivation, and they tasted it again
with a keenness of savor which was a surprise to both of
them. Their mutual understanding of most things, their
common point of view, reasserted itself more strongly
than ever as a mutual possession; they could not help
perceiving its value. Janet made a fairly successful
attempt to drown her sense of insincerity in the
recognition. She, Janet, was conscious of a deliberate
effort to widen and deepen the sympathy between them. An
obscure desire to make reparation, she hardly knew for
what, combined itself with a great longing to see their
friendship the altogether beautiful and perfect thing
its mirage was, and pushed her on to seize every opportunity
to fortify the place, she had retaken. Elfrida had never
found her so considerate, so appreciative, so amusing,
so prodigal of her gay ideas, or so much inclined to go
upon her knees at shrines before which she sometimes
stood and mocked. She had a special happiness in availing
herself of an opportunity which resulted in Elfrida's
receiving a letter from the editor of the _St. George's_
asking her for two or three articles on the American
Colony in Paris, and only very occasionally she recognized,
with a subtle thrill of disgust, that she was employing
diplomacy in every action, every word, almost every look
which concerned her friend. She asked herself then
despairingly how it could last and what good could come
of it, whereupon fifty considerations, armed with whips,
drove her on.
Perhaps the most potent of these was the consciousness
that in spite of it all she was not wholly successful,
that as between Elfrida and herself things were not
entirely as they had been. They were cordial, they were
mutually appreciative, they had moments of expansive
intercourse; but Janet could not disguise to herself the
fact that there was a difference, the difference between
fit and fusion. The impression was not a strong one,
but she half suspected her friend now and then of intently
watching her, and she could not help observing how reticent
the girl had become upon certain subjects that touched
her personally. The actress in Elfrida was nevertheless
constantly supreme, and interfered with the trustworthiness
of any single impression. She could not resist the
pardoning role; she played it intermittently, with a
pretty impulsiveness that would have amused Miss Cardiff
more if it had irritated her less. For the certainty that
Elfrida would be her former self for three days together
Janet would have dispensed gladly with the little Bohemian
dinner in Essex Court in honor of her book, or the violets
that sometimes dropped out of Elfrida's notes, or even
the sudden but premeditated occasional offer of Elfrida's
lips.
Meanwhile the Halifaxes were urging their western trip
upon her, Lady Halifax declaring roundly that she was
looking wretchedly, Miss Halifax suggesting playfully
the possibility of an American heroine for, her next
novel. Janet, repelling both publicly, admitted both
privately. She felt worn out physically, and when she
thought of producing another book her brain responded
with a helpless negative. She had been turning lately
with dogged conviction to her work as the only solace
life was likely to offer her, and anything that hinted
at loss of power filled her with blank dismay. She was
desperately weary and she wanted to forget, desiring,
besides, some sort of stimulus as a flagging swimmer
desires a rope.
One more reason came and took possession of her common
sense. Between her father and Elfrida she felt herself
a complication. If she could bring herself to consent to
her own removal, the situation, she could not help seeing,
would be considerably simplified. She read plainly in
her father that the finality Elfrida promised had not
yet been given--doubtless an opportunity had not yet
occurred; and Janet was willing to concede that the
circumstances might require a rather special opportunity.
When it should occur she recognized that delicacy, decency
almost, demanded that she should be out of the way. She
shrank miserably from the prospect of being a daily
familiar looker-on at the spectacle of Lawrence Cardiff's
pain, and she had a knowledge that there would be somehow
an aggravation of it in her person. In a year everything
would mend itself more or less, she believed dully and
tried to feel. Her father would be the same again, with
his old good-humor and criticism of her enthusiasms, his
old interest in things and people, his old comradeship
for her. John Kendal would have married Elfrida Bell--
what an idyll they would make of life together!--and she,
Janet, would have accepted the situation. Her interest
in the prospective pleasures on which Lady Halifax
expatiated was slight; she was obliged to speculate upon
its rising, which she did with all the confidence she
could command. She declined absolutely to read Bryce's
"American Commonwealth," or Miss Bird's account of the
Rocky Mountains, or anybody's travels in the Orient, upon
all of which Miss Halifax had painstakingly fixed her
attention; but one afternoon she ordered a blue serge
travelling-dress and refused one or two literary,
engagements for the present, and the next day wrote to
Lady Halifax that she had decided to go. Her father
received her decision with more relief than he meant to
show, and Janet had a bitter half-hour over it. Then
she plunged with energy into her arrangements, and
Lawrence, Cardiff made her inconsistently happy again
with the interest he took in them, supplemented by an
extremely dainty little travelling-clock. He became
suddenly so solicitous for her that she sometimes quivered
before the idea that he guessed all the reasons that were
putting her to flight, which gave her a wholly unnecessary
pang, for nothing would have astonished Lawrence Cardiff
more than to be confronted, at the moment, with any
passion that was not his own.